The Pursuit of Happiness
by Raine Ito
Summary: Sam becomes badly disillusioned about the country he lives in, and Ainsley must protect him from himself. Rated for high angst content and strong language. Ainsley/Sam


Sam Seaborn was sitting alone at his desk, head buried in his hands, when Ainsley passed by on her way to grab a doughnut from the mess.   
  
"Hey Sam," she called through the open door of his office. No response.   
  
Halfway down the hall, she stopped, and backtracked, peering in and raising her eyebrows. "Hello? Sam?" No response. "Sam? What's wrong?"   
  
His head finally rose of the desk, and he fixed her with a very exasperated glare. "Gee, I don't know, Ainsley," he said sarcastically, putting a fake smile. "Our country, the one we're supposed to be running, has been brutally attacked by a group of middle eastern terrorists, who are American-killing fanatic machines. A man whom no one can seem to locate, who has millions upon millions of dollars, orchestrates them. We could possibly be heading for World War Three. Our 'patriotic' American people are shooting people of any Muslim heritage or belief in the streets. But otherwise I guess I'm just fine, how about you?" He finished, still glaring.   
  
"Well...you aren't drinking crap water in some tiny country in Africa. You aren't dead, you aren't impoverished, you yourself aren't being shot in the street. I admit you have the misfortune of being a democrat, but that was your decision, anyway."   
  
Sam threw himself down on the desk again. "Thank you, Ainsley, that was very helpful."   
  
"You're quite welcome. Anytime."   
  
"Go away."   
  
Ainsley went away.  
  
After she'd gone, Sam sat with his head pressed against the desk for another few minutes, before sighing, sitting up, and taking a crumpled piece of paper out of his trashcan. He uncrumpled it, and looked at the three figures in it for a long time. In the photograph, he stood by another young man, tall, with dark skin, black hair, and black eyes, who held the hand of a little girl, 5 or so years old, with the same color skin and hair, but sparkling blue eyes. The little girl was laughing. Closing his eyes, Sam took the photo, and deposited it in a desk drawer. Then he stood up and left the office, leaving the light on, and closing the door behind him, heading down to get some breakfast before he started in for the day.  
  
When he entered the mess, he ended up literally bumping into Ainsley and her doughnut again, as they tried to leave the room. She stumbled backward, leaning on the edge of the table for support.   
  
"Oh, hello again," she said, standing. "Finally got hungry? Would you believe, they don't have any Fresca?"   
  
"We've covered this," said Sam irritably, trying to push past her.   
  
She didn't let him.   
  
"Sam, what's wrong? Seriously."   
  
"Leave me alone."   
  
"No," replied Ainsley, shaking her head and smiling slightly. "I didn't get this job for giving up easily. Tell me. What's up?"   
  
Frustrated, Sam turned around and left the mess. Ainsley sighed and chased after him, dumping her doughnut in the trashcan on the way up. She found Sam in his office again, with his back turned, staring out the window.   
  
"God bless America," the back of his head said bitterly as she approached.   
  
"God bless the thieves and the egotists and the demented patriotic murderers who make up this god-damned country. God bless the death and the destruction and the racism and hate, and the pain and the suffering of the innocent people, who are paying for the crimes that they took no part in, crimes that were formulated in another part of the world entirely." He turned around, and spat out, "God bless our wonderfully fucked up country, Ainsley."   
  
In a sudden furor, he picked up his lamp and hurled it into the wall. There was a crash, and then office went black. A long silence ensued. Then, quietly, Ainsley spoke.  
  
"Amen."   
  
When Sam spoke again, his voice was quiet, subdued.   
  
"She was a 7 year old girl, Ainsley. Just an innocent little kid, hadn't even had any life experience yet, hadn't even gotten to second grade. She didn't have a mother, her father took care of her. He loved her more than anything else in the whole world. He was a great man, too. We went to college together. He was imaginative, optimistic, intelligent, the kind of guy who could have changed the world. They were really religious people, celebrated, and practiced, just like your supposed to be able to do in America."  
  
His voice was growing steadily louder as he spoke.   
  
"He was driving her home from school one day, and his car was hit from behind. When he got out of the mangled car, he and his daughter were grabbed, and shot several times, before having "America" spray painted across their car, and being left there to die. Just because they were Muslim, Ainsley. Just because they were a different race. Who are the real terrorists here? Is it the Al Quaeda? Yes, partially. They're killing us. But we're no better...because we're destroying our own people!"   
  
As he sank into a chair, there was another long pause, until Ainsley asked, "Then they're both...dead?"   
  
Sam's face became expressionless, and he stood up, pulling on his coat, buttoning it, and walking towards the door.   
  
"No," he said. "The father's dead. My goddaughter is still alive, but she's dying in the children's hospital. Now leave me alone."  
  
Ainsley left the office, turning to watch him for a moment as she closed the door. Once the door was closed, and Sam was sure no one could see him, he collapsed back into his chair and sobbed against the wood of his desk again. Innocent people, he thought to himself. God fuck America.   
  
************  
  
Three hours later, he entered the children's hospital room where his goddaughter was. All the lights were dimmed, and he could barely make out a little bundle lying on a cot in the corner. Yasmin was curled up into a little ball, her curly dark hair falling over her chubby little face. Water was pressing at the back of Sam's eyes as he approached the cot quietly, making sure her eyes were closed and that she was asleep before seating himself beside her, his hands clenched tightly into fists by his side. What did this accomplish, he wondered, destroying a helpless little girl. Do you feel satisfied, wherever you are?   
  
"She never hurt anyone in her life," he said to himself, or no one. "Why her?"   
  
He watched as her eyes opened, and she looked up. Seeing Sam, she let out a little painful cry that tore at the edges of his heart. He carefully gently folded her into his arms, remembering what the doctors had said. "Internal bleeding," they'd told him gravely. "Nothing we can do. So sorry." But they hadn't been sincere. No one was sincere, he thought, no one cared.   
  
"Where's daddy?" asked Yasmin in a tiny voice, and Sam had to bite his lip to keep from crying out himself, to whatever god there was. Not that he was sure he believed in god anymore.   
  
When he left the hospital a while later, he didn't go back to the white house. He went to a bar, sat down, and got himself fantastically drunk.  
  
************  
  
Later, as he stumbled into his office at midnight, bleary eyed and sick to his stomach, Ainsley was still there, waiting for him. She took one look at his face and shoved him into a chair, watching him retch into the trashcan before sitting down next to him.   
  
"What...the...hell are you still doing here, Ainsley?" Asked Sam, vomiting again.  
  
"Shut up," Ainsley suggested, "Talking's not helping."   
  
She held out a glass of water, but Sam pushed it away, rising shakily from the chair.   
  
"Don't...need..." he collapsed to the floor, falling asleep even as he hit it, and Ainsley stared down at him, shaking her head and frowning in worry.   
  
"Oh Sam," she muttered, grabbing a pillow off a chair and placing it under his head, "What are you doing to yourself?"   
  
She pulled his coat off the chair where he'd left it, and draped it over him, before walking out of the office.  
  
**************  
  
Sam awoke the next morning with a headache like he head never had before. As it all came flooding back to him, he groaned, and pushed his coat off of him, sitting up groggily and looking around. Lying by his head were a cup of coffee, and an Advil sitting in a bottle cap.   
  
"Dammit, Ainsley, you aren't my mother," he muttered, staring at the Advil.  
  
"Thank god for that," she replied from where she sat, near his desk. "Take the pill, it'll help."  
  
Sam wasn't in a position to argue. He took the pill, and the coffee.   
  
"How's the girl?" Asked Ainsley after he'd finished.   
  
"Dying," he sighed, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. "Internal bleeding."  
  
He held his throbbing head in one hand, searching for a pencil with the other. Ainsley handed him one.   
  
"I'm...so so sorry..." she said helplessly.  
  
"Yeah, me too," replied Sam, bitterness edging his voice. "Me too."  
  
  
  



End file.
